


Detective Inspector

by Ilovecastiel18



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-06-22 05:38:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19660936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovecastiel18/pseuds/Ilovecastiel18
Summary: Just a little fic that focuses on Lestrade. Starts with him showing up at the scene of The Fall and comforting John, followed by him reprimanding Sherlock for leaving John. Third chapter will take place after TFP. Hurt/comfort, friendship, angst. Warning for mentions of suicide, faked or otherwise, and language.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely love Lestrade. I think he is a fantastic character who is very underappreciated. I also think Rupert Graves is the spot-on actor to play him, so it’s a perfect storm. This is basically a Lestrade appreciation fic.

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

……….

Detective Inspector

Chapter 1

……….

John was sitting on the sidewalk, in utter shock from what had happened. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. John’s best friend.

Dead.

He kept replaying Sherlock’s “note” over and over inside his head, wondering if there was anything that he could have done. He thought about everything that had happened in the last few days, questioning if there were signs that he hadn’t seen, things that Sherlock had said or done that could have hinted at a death wish.

John sat next to the pool of blood on the pavement, staring at the spot where Sherlock had fallen as the EMTs loaded his body onto a gurney. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he thought about how this might be the last time that he would ever see his best friend.

He would never again walk into the flat to obnoxious smells and sounds from Sherlock’s absurd science experiments. Never again hear the consulting detective playing his violin at three in the morning, because God forbid he ever sleep. Never again yell at him for shooting the wall or smoking in the house because he was so bloody bored. Never again reprimand that ridiculous man for never eating or drinking any water, saying that he would wither away into nothing unless he _ate something, Goddamn it!_

John would never again chase after Sherlock as he ran through the streets of London, flushed and out of breath but feeling so _alive._ Never hear him rattle off deductions at the speed of light, flustering every client and detective but sounding so _brilliant._ Never again see him smile, or hear his deep laugh after someone said something stupid, or John said something funny. Never see those dark curls fly as Sherlock ran to swing his ridiculous coat around his shoulders and tie his scarf around his neck, the excitement of a new case or new evidence apparent in every inch of his face. Never again see him _“with your cheekbones, and turning up your coat collar so you look cool.”_

A tear rolled down John’s face as he thought of that memory from the Baskerville case, realizing that his best friend truly was gone forever.

……….

Just then, Lestrade walked up to the scene, his eyes darting from John to the blood to Sherlock’s body being whisked away into an ambulance. Realizing what had happened, and what they had just lost.

What John had just lost.

“Oh my God, no.” Lestrade muttered. “No, no, no, no, this can’t be happening. Sherlock can’t be…” he walked over to John, noticing how he hadn’t moved, despite the pool of blood coming closer to soaking into his jeans. “John, bloody hell, what happened?”

John didn’t answer the Detective Inspector, still staring at the pool of blood on the sidewalk.

Lestrade crouched down next to him and touched his shoulder lightly. “Look at me.” He didn’t. “John, please.”

So, John turned, and Lestrade had to fight every urge in his body not to reach out and hug his friend, because the doctor had tears in his eyes, and a few that had fallen and left tracks on his face. However, he realized that John’s eyes were wide with shock, and all color had drained from his face, making Lestrade realize that his friend was about to have a panic attack.

“Alright, you need to get up.” Lestrade stood from where he had been crouching, grabbing John’s hand and hoisting him up alongside him. He dragged the doctor roughly away from the scene and the pooled blood, pushing him up against the wall of St. Bart’s.

“Okay, mate, you need to breathe.” He ordered. He put both of his hands John’s shoulders, forcing the shorter man to look into his eyes. When that didn’t work, Lestrade forcibly grabbed one of his hands and pressed it against his chest, right over his heart, and started to breath slowly and evenly. “Copy me, John. Follow my breathing pattern.” He kept breathing steadily, and eventually John calmed down enough to breathe normally.

But that also meant that he was thinking, more or less, rationally.

“Greg, oh my God, oh my…” John gasped and slumped back against the wall, tears falling freely from his eyes. “Greg, he’s…he’s…” John let out a sob, making Lestrade use the hand that he still had on the doctor’s shoulder to pull him forward into his chest. He used his body to shield John from the pedestrians that were giving them odd looks as they walked by. Everything seemed to have already been forgotten. Everything was back to normal, except for the friends of the Great Sherlock Holmes.

Right now, John needed to grieve without people staring at him. And Lestrade felt obligated to be there for him and protect him from the gossip that was bound to arise from this tragedy.

Lestrade wrapped both of his arms firmly around John’s shoulders, hiding the doctor’s face, which was pressed into his chest, with the crook of his arm.

He felt John’s shaking arms snake around his back, and he briefly tightened his grip to let the doctor know that he needn’t worry about being judged. Not by him.

Lestrade refused to even think about Sherlock. Not when John needed him. He didn’t want to think about the first time that the consulting detective had brought his new friend to a crime scene. How he had prattled on about how the dead woman had recently travelled from out of town, had a job in the media, was serial adulterer, how she had a missing overnight suitcase, and how “ _of course she was writing ‘Rachel!’”_ How his eyes lit up just a bit when John said he was brilliant.

He refused to think about how many times Sherlock had saved his ass, and how many times he should have saved his. How many times had Donovan or Anderson insulted and belittled the detective? How many times could Lestrade have stopped the bullying, and given Sherlock just a small moment of reprieve? Sherlock wasn’t an easy man to get along with, but he certainly deserved better that the shit that those two idiots dished out on him every day, despite how hard he worked to help them.

No, he wasn’t a fraud. No one could fake being Sherlock Holmes all the time. If he was a fake, he wouldn’t have been able to take the bullying he had to endure, or solve as many bloody homicides as he had.

And so, Lestrade had failed his friend.

The Detective Inspector felt tears swimming in his eyes as he held onto John, who was weeping into his chest.

If only he hadn’t listened to Donovan and Anderson. If only he had believed in his friend, who he had never doubted before. If only he had listened, and been there to try to talk Sherlock down from the ledge, instead of sifting through all of the case files that the brilliant man had worked on because of the bloody Chief Superintendent.

He had failed Sherlock.

He wasn’t going to fail John.

He continued to hold onto John until he calmed down and pushed away from the detective, wiping at his face and muttering a strong of apologies.

“Please, John. Don’t apologize to me. After what just…don’t apologize. And if you need anything, _anything,_ I want you to call me. No matter what. I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a meeting, or it’s four in the morning and I’m trying to sleep. If you need to talk to someone, I’ll be there. I mean it.”

John nodded, though Lestrade could tell that he didn’t intend to call.

“John, look at me.” Lestrade commanded. “I know we aren’t close friends, but I want to be. Sh- he was my friend too, John. I want to be there for you like I couldn’t be for him. I don’t have many friends, and I want to help the few that I have. So, please, call me if you need me.”

And this time, when John nodded, Lestrade could tell that he’d gotten through. Yes, Sherlock Holmes may have died, but maybe the Detective Inspector could ensure that the best friend he left behind would be alright after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

……….

Detective Inspector

Chapter 2

……….

Lestrade slowly made his way into the car park under New Scotland Yard, wearily reaching into his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. He had tried to stop smoking before, but the events of the last couple of years had stopped his progress in its tracks.

Two years. It had been two years since he had listened to Donovan and Anderson, allowing doubts about his friend to snake its way into his mind. Two years since he had allowed his mind to overrule his heart, and gone to the Chief Superintendent and told him about Sherlock.

Two years since Sherlock jumped of St. Bart’s, and Lestrade had to pick up the pieces of John’s shattered life and help him heal.

Some days it was too much, and the Detective Inspector couldn’t help but reminisce about all the times Sherlock had helped him on a case, cursing the idiocy of Scotland Yard but assisting nonetheless.

Today was a bad day. Lestrade had worked a suicide, and that made all of his horrible memories of the past two years come flooding back. Memories of John sobbing in his arms as EMTs whisked Sherlock’s body away. Memories of all of the phone calls and texts he received from his friend, whenever he was having a bad day and needed a friend.

Lestrade and John had become a lot closer over the past two years, but that didn’t make things any easier. Because Sherlock was still dead. And he wasn’t coming back.

Lestrade sighed and lifted the cigarette to his lips, flicking his lighter open with a click.

_“Those things will kill you, you know.”_

That voice…Lestrade had thought he would never hear it again. Bloody Sherlock Holmes.

“Oh, you bastard.” Lestrade turned around, pulling the cigarette from where it was hanging from his mouth and shoving it in his pocket.

And there he was. The great consulting detective, with his dark curly hair and his Belstaff with the collar turned up.

Lestrade wanted to punch him. How _dare_ he put his friends and family through that pain. How dare he allow his friend, especially John, to go though the agony of his loss. He would never know the extent Lestrade went to in order to make sure that John wouldn’t follow in Sherlock’s footsteps.

Yes, he wanted to punch Sherlock Holmes right in his smug face. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. All he could do was hug his friend, barely allowing himself to believe that it was real.

And then, he did punch him. Right across the face.

When Sherlock straightened, holding his jaw where Lestrade’s fist had connected with his face, he gave the Detective Inspector a reproachful look.

“Was there a point to that?” he muttered, sounding mildly annoyed.

“You absolute, God awful, fucking asshole.” Lestrade yelled, though with less heat than what he intended. “How could you do that?”

“I assure you, there was a perfectly relevant reason that I had to leave…” Sherlock started to explain.

“That’s not what I mean, dammit! How could you leave your friends thinking that you were dead? Do you have any idea what John went through? He almost jumped off St. Bart’s!” Lestrade yelled, his anger finally pushing its way from where he’d hidden it.

“I didn’t have a choice!” Sherlock retorted.

“Of course you had a bloody choice, Sherlock! You didn’t have to jump off St. Bart’s!”

“Yes I did! I literally had no other option!”  


“Then you could have told us you were alive!” Lestrade’s chest was heaving. How could Sherlock have done that to his friends?

“Listen…”

“No, Sherlock, you listen.” Lestrade walked forward until he was practically nose-to-nose with the consulting detective. “You have no idea what John went through. None. When I showed up to the scene, he was having a panic attack. After I calmed him down, he literally spent almost an hour sobbing into my chest. I had three or four calls from him every week, and every time I had to talk him out of suicide. _Every. Single. Time._ You have no idea the stress you have caused for me, thinking that another one of my, very few, friends was going to die too. You broke John’s heart. You literally destroyed him. He only just recovered enough to start living his life again, and now you’re going to fuck it up. So, you listen to me…” Lestrade paused for breath. “If you ever hurt him like that again, Sherlock, you won’t only have to deal with whatever criminals you have been fighting with for the past two years. You’re my friend, and I love you, but I _will not_ have you causing John to want to die again. Understood?”

“Lestrade, I had to leave, and I couldn’t tell anyone…” Sherlock started to argue.

“Don’t bullshit me, Sherlock. I’m sure your all-powerful dick of a brother knew. I’m sure your parents knew. I’m sure there were other people that you told so you could fake your suicide properly. You just couldn’t be bothered to tell your fucking friends. The people that care about you. How could you…”

“There were snipers, Lestrade! If I hadn’t jumped, you, John, and Mrs. Hudson would have been shot and killed!” Sherlock yelled.

“That’s not the bloody point!”

“You could have told someone, blown my cover…”

“Do you really think that little of your friends? You couldn’t tell John that you were alive because he might tell your secret? I’m starting to understand why people don’t think you feel anything, Sherlock.” Lestrade muttered, backing up so he was a few feet away from his friend. “I don’t care why or how you did it. I don’t care why you thought it was okay to destroy John’s life like that. But don’t hurt him again, Sherlock, I don’t think he could take it.”

“I will heed your advice, Lestrade.”

The Detective Inspector nodded, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back, mate. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Sherlock nodded, then walked out of the car park in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

……….

Detective Inspector

Chapter 3

……….

It had been a week since the disastrous events at Sherrinford. Lestrade had a day off, so he had stopped by at 221B to help clean up some of the rubble from the explosion. He didn’t know much of what had occurred, just that Sherlock had a secret sister, and said sister had taken control of her prison and used it to torture her two brothers and John Watson.

John had recently left for work, leaving a sleeping Rosie with Mrs. Hudson. The workers that Sherlock had hired were also gone, using time to go on a lunch break, so it was just him and Sherlock working to clean up the mess of a flat. Lestrade was placing books, the ones that weren’t ruined in the explosion, on the bookshelves while Sherlock was trying to find out if any of his science equipment had survived the blast.

Just as Lestrade was placing the last few books on the shelf, he heard the sound of glass shattering and a yelp of surprise.

He whipped around, thinking that someone had broken in and attacked Sherlock. He had hurtled the consulting detective’s chair and was halfway to the kitchen before he realized that no one was in the flat save him and Sherlock. What was more, it seemed that Sherlock had dropped whatever piece of equipment had shattered. And he seemed to be reliving a memory that seemed none-too-pleasant.

He was staring unseeingly at the wall, mouth slightly hanging open, and his hand was in the air as if he was still holding the piece of equipment that he’d dropped.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade carefully made his way through the rubble over to his friend, refusing to run now that he was aware that the consulting detective wasn’t in danger.

As soon as Lestrade made it to Sherlock, the younger man seemed to snap out of whatever memory he was reliving, hastily wiping at a tear that had welled up in his eye.

“Oh, dammit.” Sherlock muttered, looking at the shattered glass where his equipment had hit the ground. He sighed and moved to get a broom and dustpan, quickly sweeping up the mess and throwing it into one of the many bins that were scattered around the flat.

Lestrade was still standing where he had ended up before Sherlock snapped out of it, a few feet from the stool that the taller man had been sitting on. The Detective Inspector had been about to reach out and grasp Sherlock’s shoulder when he woke up from his memory.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade questioned again.

“Yes, what is it?” Sherlock muttered, his back turned to the detective.

Lestrade made his way around to the front of Sherlock, looking into his face. “What happened?”

Lestrade was not a touchy-feely man. He didn’t do well with emotions at all. When he had caught his wife cheating, he had called into work and went on a three-day drinking binge. He didn’t talk about his feelings, or other people’s feelings, and he certainly wasn’t the kind of man who would counsel anyone over trauma.

But that was before The Fall. He had been there for John through the tough times. He had answered every time that John had called him, no matter where he was or what he was doing. He talked his friend off the edge more times than he cared to admit, and prayed for John more times than he could count, even though he wasn’t religious.

So, helping Sherlock with whatever he’d just relived wasn’t far from what Lestrade was doing with his time now. He was another grieving friend that the Detective Inspector wanted to help.

“Nothing, I just dropped a beaker.” Sherlock replied, refusing to look into Lestrade’s eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me, Sherlock. But I want to help if I can. I’ll listen if you want to talk.”

“It’s just…Eurus. My sister. It’s nothing that concerns you.” Sherlock responded, attempting to turn and flee into his room.

“It concerns me if it’s hurting you. You’re my friend, Sherlock.” Lestrade said, grabbing the taller man’s arm to stop him from running. He didn’t usually get sentimental with anybody, least of all Sherlock, but he wanted his friend to know that he would be there for him if he needed it. “I’m not the kind of guy that’s good with emotions, mate, but I would be…interested to hear the story of everything happened with your sister if you want to tell it.”

“I doubt you really want to hear it, Lestrade. It’s…disturbing.” Sherlock muttered.

“All the same. I’m a Detective Inspector, I’ve seen my fair share of disturbing.”

“Not like this.” Sherlock sighed and sat in his chair, Lestrade following and sitting in John’s.

“I’m…just starting to regain my memories of Eurus from childhood.” Sherlock started. When Lestrade gave him a confused look, he realized that the Detective Inspector knew nothing of the story at all. “Right, you don’t even know that bit. Eurus was taken away and imprisoned at a very young age for killing my best friend and trying to kill me. She was six and I was seven. After she was taken away, I rewrote my memories, excluding her. I didn’t remember she existed until about two days before the events at Sherrinford, where she had been imprisoned.”

“Wait, your six-year-old sister tried to kill you?” Lestrade interrupted.

“Yes. Mycroft and I are geniuses. We are a step about almost everyone else, with intellect vastly superior to most humans. Eurus, however…” Sherlock paused, “She had almost superhuman intelligence. Far superior than I or Mycroft. If you think I don’t understand human emotion…Eurus didn’t even understand what pain was, and how she should react to it.”

“What do you mean?” Lestrade prompted.

“According to Mycroft, a few months before she tried to kill me, my parents found Eurus slicing her forearm open. Apparently, they thought it was a suicide attempt, however when Mycroft asked her what she was doing, she said _‘I wanted to see how my muscles worked.’_ When Mycroft asked if she felt pain, she said _“Which one is pain?’_ ”

“Holy shit.”

“Precisely. So, the best course of action to deal with a six-year-old, mildly homicidal, psychopathic genius, according to my Uncle Rudy, was to lock her up. So, he did. Right around the time that my uncle died, and Mycroft took over Eurus’s imprisonment, she attempted to burn down the facility where she had been since the age of six. So, Mycroft moved her to Sherrinford, and told our parents that she had died in the fire.

“Around two months ago, when I was off my tits on drugs and John wasn’t talking to me, she came to the flat on the pretense that she was Faith Smith, daughter of, as you know, the serial killer Culverton Smith. She gave me the vital clues I needed to apprehend him. After I found out that it wasn’t actually Faith Smith that came to my flat, I figured I had hallucinated the whole think because of the vast amounts of heroin I had ingested. It later transpired that it was Eurus.”

“So, she escaped Sherrinford?” Lestrade asked.

“To an extent. I’ll get to that.” Sherlock paused. “She also masqueraded as John’s new therapist, and a woman who complimented him and gave him her number on the bus. Before she shot John with a tranquilizer and escaped, she explained that she was my ‘secret sister,’ as he put it. John and I confronted Mycroft, and he explained everything about how she had drowned my best friend, who at the time I thought had been my dog, long story,” he said as Lestrade started to interrupt. “and how she didn’t understand what pain was. Just as Mycroft was assuring John and I that she couldn’t possibly escape, she used a drone to fly an explosive device into the flat. Obvious.” Sherlock waved his hand around at the dirt and rubble cluttering 221B.

“You thought your best friend was a dog?” Lestrade questioned.

“I rewrote my memories of my friend, Victor Trevor, or Redbeard, because of the trauma of his death.” Sherlock explained shortly.

“Anyway, John, Mycroft, and I broke into Sherrinford. Mycroft took over, I visited Eurus, everything was as alright as it should have been. Turns out that Eurus had brainwashed the Governor, and ran the entire prison. That how she could come and go as she pleased. She knocked the three of us and the Governor out, stuck us in her old cell, and proceeded to use us as a lab experiment.

“First, she said that either John or Mycroft had to shoot the Governor with a gun she provided for us. If one of them didn’t shoot him, she would kill his wife. Neither would do it, so he shot himself and she shot his wife.

“Next, she forced us to solve a murder, with three brothers as the suspects. When I told her who the killer was, she killed the other two brothers. John complained, and she killed the third.

“Then, she made me manipulate Molly Hooper…”

“Hang on, Sherlock.” Lestrade interrupted. “How was she making you do all of this?”

“She used a little girl that was supposedly on a plane that was about to crash into London. Every time I got through a task, I could talk on the phone with her. Turns out, this was another manipulation, but I’ll get to that. Anyway,

“She made me manipulate Molly Hooper into saying she loved me by saying that her flat was rigged with explosives. I got Molly to say it, and Eurus informed me that of course she hadn’t rigged her flat to explode. I lost it, smashing this coffin she provided to manipulate me even more.

“In the next room, she told me to choose either John or Mycroft to kill.”

Lestrade was worried about Sherlock. He was speeding through his explanation, clearly keen to get it over with and move on. He wasn’t dealing with this at all.

“I chose to threaten to shoot myself instead, so she knocked us all out. She left Mycroft at Sherrinford and brought John and I to the old house that she had burned down trying to kill me. She put John in the same well where she had drowned Victor Trevor. I found out that I had rewritten the memories when John found his bones and said they were the bones of a child, not a dog.

“I had to solve this riddle that she had repeated every time anyone asked where Redbeard, Victor Trevor, was. I solved it. Turns out, the little girl on the plane was actually Eurus. Every time she closed her eyes, she was all alone, flying high above us all. She told me where to find John just before he drowned.” He stopped for air.

“You know the rest. And now, the memories keep coming back, I can’t stop them. I dropped that beaker because, when I picked it up, I remembered Eurus teaching me how to take samples. I can’t even look at my violin anymore without remembering her teaching me how to play.” Sherlock sighed and scrubbed his hand down his face.

“I can’t even imagine, Sherlock.” Lestrade muttered, wondering what to do.

“No, I don’t imagine you can. Though…” he paused. “I’m actually glad you offered to listen. It feels…good, I guess, to talk about it with someone who didn’t live it.”

“Mate, you know I’m there for you, whenever you need me. I was there for John after you jumped. I know you have John to talk to, and he can actually relate, but…if you ever need some fresh ears, or to talk to someone who’s not John, I’m only a call away.”

“Thank you, Greg.”

Lestrade stood and patted Sherlock on the shoulder, intending to give his friend a brief moment of comfort and then leave him alone to his thoughts, knowing that that was something Sherlock enjoyed. Thinking.

However, when he placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the detective reached up and placed his own hand overtop of his, holding it there so Lestrade couldn’t leave.

“Please stay. I could use the help, and the company. I don’t really fancy being alone at the moment.” Sherlock muttered apologetically.

“Of course, mate.” So Lestrade let go of his friend’s shoulder and started helping to clean the mess, glad that Sherlock trusted him with what had truly happened with his sister.

Glad he had found a friend in the unlikeliest of places.


End file.
